Missing in Action
by ruth baulding
Summary: Some people never outgrow their talent for trouble.
1. Chapter 1

**Missing in Action**

* * *

**I.**

He wakes: abruptly, completely, cold hard sensation _slamming _ against his eyes and ears, nose and throat like an acrid ocean. There is _cold,_ and _hard light, noise –_ blip blip blip tocktocktock hummmmmm – and _blaring white,_ and that horrible sticky scent, _sharp sweet_ at the back of his throat.

He is staring at an inverted plane, ceiling-pale, a sky of plaster and paint punctuated by crude constellations of light and dark, the mechanical workings of some vast technical orrery. Blinking makes it spin. It also makes him dizzy.

Eyes closed, there is more cloying scent and ominous _click click drip hummmm,_ but less piercing white and no _things_ looming near. Given a moment to think and take stock, he realizes that he is swathed in softness, a languor wrapped about his limbs both outward and inward. He has been turned to _jelly,_ limp and fuzzy somehow, all squished up like the messes Reeft makes of his food in the refectory. Also, parts of him are uncomfortable and itchy – his arm is smothered in a hard thing he cannot get off and there are lots of small, knobbly things taped to his belly and chest. One is even stuck just beneath his ear.

Much scrabbling with his free hand gets some of them off – they are curious little barnacles made of plastoid and faintly pulsing when he touches them, but their fate is to be flung to the floor.

The floor is far away, and smooth. He peers over the edge of his prison and judges the drop. Normally it would not intimidate him in the least, but at the moment his stomach gives a mighty lurch as he leans over the edge, and his heart thumps in agreement. He clutches at the edge of the railing for support and peers from beneath a blanket's hem at the door, improbably far across the room. He has to get _out_, and get _home._

Surely by now he has been missed and Ali Alaan is frantic with worry.

* * *

He wakes: abruptly, completely, a cold vacuum of sensation _howling_ in his ears and throat, clamoring behind his temples and in his lungs. The Force is _alight_ with need and a sticky sweet ache, the acrid tang of animal fear. Vaguely he wonders to whom it belongs.

He is staring at a blank void, stifling dark and so close, so very near that it threatens to collapse inward upon him. Reflexively he puts up a hand to stop the concavity from crushing him. His fingers slide, slick and hot, over smooth metal, ridged and scored, pocked by a city-scape network of lines and intersections. Liquid dribbles down his knuckles. Oil? Or is it merely his blood? The iron-scent of it might mean either one.

Eyes closed, there is Light, and suffocation seems a less imminent reality. Drifting, his rational mind seeks vainly to comprehend how he, at roughly 80 kilos, has been crammed into such a ridiculously tight compartment. Cephalopods in the Coruscant zoo have been observed to squeeze their boneless bodies into astoundingly narrow apertures, a voice in distant memory academically observes. Perhaps he has been jellied, his skeleton _disintegrated,_ and -

Not a salutary thought.

He jerks his attention back to the _present moment._ There is not much room for anything else here, in this dark, smothering place.

Much scrabbling with his free hand – meaning the one he can move because it is not pinned fast in place by constricting metal - brings his slick-wet fingers closing about the hard cylindrical hilt of his weapon

The walls of his prison – _coffin,_ his inner pundit supplies, unhelpfully – are cramped and unforgiving; he has barely enough room to wriggle, much less bring the 'saber's business end into proper position. If he hits the activation switch now, he will end up sans a toe or two, or perhaps with a hole in his thigh. When he chuckles, sardonically, he can feel the hot-damp gust of his own breath. It whispers against his sweat-soaked skin, and he wishes with a very small vexed part of himself that he could wipe the clinging strands of hair off his forehead. Quite aside from the risk of asphyxiation, being trapped here is even worse than flying. And that is saying something. He has to get _out,_ and get _back._

Surely by now he has been missed and Anakin is frantic with worry.

* * *

His first bid for freedom is short-lived.

It is a simple matter to wriggle backwards off the high cot, bare toes splayed out, seeking the cool floor. He slides downward, tongue peeking out, brows furrowed in concentration, until a small drop deposits him upon the polished tile, in a heap of shapeless cloth that sags off one shoulder and pools about his feet. He hitches the ridiculous garb up in one fist, and squints at the cumbersome cast molded about his entire left arm.

Pain ghosts beneath the surface, a memory of something prior. If he wasn't so muddled on the inside, he feels sure he could recollect exactly what has transpired, and why he is in this strange and hostile environment. The machines in the room continue to blip – steadily now, as though they are aggrieved by his escape – but they do not move or come for him. They are very stupid, stationary droids, he concludes.

Deep breaths, like those he has practiced with his crechemates, bring the giddy world back to a standstill. One more deep inhale, and he sprints for the door, feet pattering softly _pitpitpitpitpit_ . The smooth plastoid panel yields to his will, _swoosh-hiss, _and he darts through the gap and straight into a pair of tall legs clothed in long blue healer's robes. Hands, kind but firm, seize him; a small gasp of dismay, a muted rustle of cloth, and he is looking into a pair of liquid amber eyes.

"No, no, _no."_

The Twi"Lek healer's blue _lekku_ twitch as she purses her lips and frowns, casting a swift glance over one shoulder and then down the corridor. Her voice is gently accented; the words come out with an exotic timbre halfway between reproach and amusement. "What do you _think_ you are doing, little one? Tsk. Back into bed. Come."

And before he can protest, or formulate an escape plan, she has scooped him up bodily and carried him back into the dim chamber beyond.

He throws a _very small_ tantrum when she deposits him back at his starting place, which is to say he thrusts out his lower lip, scowls as hard as he can, and stares at the ceiling until its pale color washes out into stinging blurs. He also _kicks,_ just a little, and _squeezes_ the blankets into a strangled ball with his good hand when she grimly fixes the knobbly objects back in place. They are cold and he does not want them on his _skin,_ and when she tries to explain it to him about 'biosigns' and 'monitors' he turns his head sideways and does not _listen_ to her sophistical claptrap. His deliberate snub produces nothing more than a soft sigh, one laced more with pity than indignation, and this is doubly frustrating. His teeth grit together hard and his toes _curl in_, but for all his fire and passion, which are forbidden, all that happens is that the machines start blipping merrily away again and the blankets are smoothed over him.

He wishes he knew some _bad_ words. Juicy, gritty, shocking ones.

The healer cards though his short hair, fingers seeming to tingle pleasantly where they trace over his scalp. "Sleep," she murmurs.

His war-cry of defiance wells up into a hiccupping grunt, and he is slack-jawed and snoring the next instant.

* * *

His initial bid for freedom is not particularly suave.

It is no simple matter to twist his body sideways within the excruciatingly tight confines of the crushed… cockpit, the abstract part of his mind supplies. 'Saber gripped _behind_ his back, arm _blazing_ with pain, which is good because that means the nerves are not severed or damaged – he switches the plasma beam on and gags on the choking fumes as the arc-wave blade reduces metal to slag. He thanks the _Force_ for the blessing of armor when he hears the tell-tale spatter and sizzle of sparks. When he has punched some kind of hole through the hull behind him, he _writhes _his back around and works a knee up against the _hot_ bulge, near the ragged and glowing gap.

Hard not to cough and choke, but he manages it.

A vicious _shove_ and a sloppy, amateurish thrust outward with the Force, and the whole side gives way. Cold, fresh air tickles his skin, and he sucks in great lungfuls, drunk on a barely attained liberty, and shuddering with the ebb and flow of pain. Complicated. There are _several_ places where he must be bleeding…. Puncture wounds, possibly shrapnel? … but the black energy dispersal suit beneath his armor plates provides a kind of all-over pressure bandage. He should be fine as long as he does not try to _treat_ the injuries.

This is funny. He smiles, wanly.

And then he hears the _clankclankclank_ of a droid patrol, and adrenaline erases any thought but that of survival. There is at the back of his mind a niggling urge to piece together the immediate past - something about flying and defensive fortifications and enemy lines and the CIS shipyards, but the details fit together unevenly , like a badly-crafted puzzle.

_Clankclankclankclank._

A harsh vocabulator grates out fateful words: "There. Enemy starfighter. Scan for life forms."

He silently mouths a rich volley of expletives. Juicy, gritty, shocking ones. In five languages.

"Roger roger." The creak and crick of servos draws nearer, and then the nearly inaudible whine of a standard biosensor array.

"One life form registered."

"Proceed with extreme caution."

More clanking and clicking, as the trepidated patrol inches closer. A few deep centering breaths, to rally what dregs of strength might be lurking at the bottom of his reserves, and his fingers slide lovingly along his saber's hilt. One against twenty or so…. In his present condition, it's almost a fair contest.

The droids halt, covering their doomed captain with loaded blasters. A spindly hand and conical head appear silhouetted against the smoke-clotted sky. Its flat optic plates gleam dully.

"You are under arrest, in the name of the Confederacy of Independent Systeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaa-"

Decapitating the foremost droid and tumbling out of his cramped hiding place in one motion, he hits the rocky ground and deflects stun bolts in a feverish whirl, sapphire blade screaming out a long, continuous peal of defiance. He has carved his way through eight or nine of his assailants and is happily contemplating the other half of the inept platoon, when he catches sight of the looming heavy cannon tank in his peripheral vision.

_For stars' sake. _

When the droids cease fire, he falters slightly, panting hard and reassessing his initially optimistic diagnosis of his injuries. He might possibly be in a spot of trouble, here.

The tank's canopy pops open to reveal the head and shoulders of a brutish, heavy-jowled fellow in CIS naval uniform. "Ah, General," this individual grunts, in a peculiarly nasal voice. "I am told a Jedi never surrenders, but I do hope you will seriously consider an exception clause to the policy… there are a few matters I'd like to discuss with you at our headquarters."

The droids are joined by another troop, one with an extraneous shielded droideka or two in their ranks.

So gauche.

He twirls his 'saber in an idle Soresu opening salute, and grins a bit shakily. It is true that a Jedi is rumored never to surrender; it is also true that legends seldom tell of one passing clean out in the middle of a pitched conflict. He weaves on his feet, philosophically debating which of these two likelihoods would technically be more tarnishing to the Order's mystique, but his speculation proves inconclusive.

His overtaxed body decides matters for him, and drops him on the spot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Missing in Action**

* * *

**II.**

When he wakes again, he is not alone.

By squinting one eye open just a sliver, and peering through the amber fringe of lashes thus created, he can make out the form of a droid, waiting _just there_ by his side. It is not like the other machines – it is one of the ones that has a front part designed like a face, and which might speak in words rather than blips. There are two sorts of droids that populate his home: this latter kind, which imitate _people_ in appearance and manner, and then the other kind, which are all lump or claw or floating sphere, the sort that ignore people and just go about their business with a benign contempt for the sentient life around them.

He has not decided which sort he likes better, or if he likes either type at all. Droids are peculiar, in any case, and not necessarily to be trusted.

This one has clearly been set in place to _watch_ over him, to prevent escape. It has a pale colored body and harmless round optics, and its torso is vaguely bulged, as though in imitation of a humanoid bosom. Its hands are molded plastoid, the digits spatulate and gently curved, not the vicious spindly needles of _the other _med-droids he has glimpsed here. The overall effect of this unwelcome guardian is supposed to be _soothing - _ he divines this much by intuitive inference. It is a thing designed for the younglings, a cooing and coddling automaton made to lure him into an unsuspecting complacency.

He cannot be _hoodwinked_ in such a manner.

Bolting upright, he starts ripping off the vexatious _monitor_ nodes again. They itch, and they are _on him._

"No, no,no, no," the droid softly warbles. It has a female voice, one rumpled into trilling arpeggios by the vocabulator circuit. Its arms trace studiedly non-aggressive circles in the air, not _quite_ touching him but effectively blocking his attempt to liberate himself. One mechanized hand splays gently over his chest and pushes him back against the pillows, while the vocoder emits a burbling noise not unlike a roosting bird.

He is well accustomed to such reminders of _permitted_ and not permitted, right and wrong, proper and unbecoming. His world is a chiaroscuro pattern of _yes_ and _no, _ a piebald maze in which some of his desires are smiled upon while others are discouraged. Mostly he understands the prohibitions and injunctions thus scribed about his passions, or at least tries to understand – but this time the whole situation _makes no sense_ at all.

He growls out his disapprobation and squirms until the bedclothes are a lamentable mess, but the droid merely clucks at him and tucks everything back in place. It is an annoying and _useless _ droid.

"Are you hungry?" it inquires, solicitously.

Maybe it is not _completely_ useless. "Yes," he admits, hugging his arms tight across his chest. His belly aches almost as much as his dully throbbing arm and head.

"Stay here and be a good boy," the thing admonishes him, in its mellifluous, humming voice. "I will bring some suitable nourishment."

He flexes his toes and shrugs his shoulders and tucks his legs up under him, meditation lotus as he has been taught. He will _eat,_ whatever it brings him as long as it is not _nasty – _but that does not mean he is not still planning escape.

He yawns hugely and practices _patience _ while he waits for food and the perfect moment to _act._

* * *

When he comes to, he is alone.

Well, from a certain point of view. The Force oozes like sludge, dull and thick, warping only slowly about him, through him. It parts and flows _around_ one or two objects in the small space, alerting him to the presence of a soulless automaton placed – doubtless – to _guard_ over him. With an effort , he pries open one eye and squints at his blearing surroundings, picking out the obnoxious sentinel by its skeletal shape and dead, flat optic sensors. _A med unit. _Curious.

"Please do not move," the thing says, the injunction coming out as textureless and inhuman as the rest of it. Four double articulated arms surmounted by… _things…._are waving at its sides.

Of course, the only appropriate response to such an imperious greeting is defiance. He sits up – or at least, he starts to sit up before blinding pain aborts the effort and leaves him panting on his back. Raw animal instinct dispels any lingering grogginess and lends a certain cogency to his self-assessment. Arm: broken, but set, and tingling in the aftermath of a bone-knitter. Ribs: definitely dislocated, tender on the left side, but also recently repaired. Chest and belly – five separate puncture wounds, throbbing like the blazes but sealed and cleaned, and covered by bacta-infused patches.

In other words, the med droid has done its job. Which is slightly disconcerting, as he was rather under the impression that he was a prisoner of war. Technically, anyway.

A much more ginger and halting attempt at verticality follows. After several attempts and a prolonged perjoration of droids, flying, the war, the Confederacy, and incivility in general, he is victorious. Eyes flitting from corner to corner of the tiny chamber, he notes the lack of windows or large ventilation gratings, and the energy barrier over the only entrance. Also, a complete absence of armor, tabards, and most importantly – _lightsaber._

He is a prisoner, then.

And the Force is still sluggish, clotted with foreign murk. He can barely _feel _ it. Not good.

"Some decent clothing would be nice," he snaps at the droid, to mask his sudden surge of alarm.

"These garments have been provided for your use," the spindly cybernetic doctor drones, indicating a pile of grey cloth upon an inset shelf.

It turns out to be a drab CIS naval uniform, lower deck ensign's jacket and trousers, in roughly the right size. The Separatist insignia is proudly emblazoned on sleeve and chest. Growling, he rips the badges loose from the fabric beneath, leaving two ragged-edged holes where the weave is ruptured. But better _sloppy_ than sporting the guild-mark of _treason._

The droid looks on dispassionately as he struggles stoically into the _stupid_ clothes, wincing not a little at the gymnastic effort this requires. Fighting free of this situation is going to be problematic, even aside from his lack of weapon. He will have to resort to _negotiation._

And of course the uncouth barves have neglected to provide any footwear.

"Please do not engage in strenuous activity of any sort," the droid warbles. "Your tissues are still in a regenerative phase, and liable to sustain further damage if subjected to strain."

"I'll keep the mayhem low-key," he promises, dead pan.

His interlocutor tucks away various instruments into its own chest cavity and nods. "General Puggil will be here shortly. He hopes you will accept his invitation to dine with him."

Brows rising of their own accord, he privately observes that this is among the most _aggressive_ invitations he has ever been issued, second only to Ventress' repeated enticements to die in agony impaled on her blade, etc etc. But who is he to cast aspersion on the social mores of his good host? Especially when the man intends to feed him.

He hasn't eaten in….. a long time.

He will take what he can get, and be patient. The Force will show him the right moment to _act._

* * *

After a long wait, the droid returns with a food tray – and the blue-skinned Twi'Lek healer in tow.

His initial enthusiasm for the meal is dampened somewhat by the discovery that the tray bears nothing but a grain porridge and blue milk in a plastoid cup. He had hoped for something _good,_ maybe a muja fruit or some _rikklas, _ but this repast is not _nasty,_ per se, so he sets to with a good appetite, spooning the bland offering into his mouth without undue ceremony. It would be better with spice or honey, but he doubts his trifling preferences will be indulged here.

The healer and the droid watch him eat with gently approving expressions. The healer, anyway. He is not sure whether droids have expressions – and he does not care to ponder the question overmuch, either.

"Excellent," the graceful Twi'Lek murmurs, sitting down on the edge of his cot without asking permission. He draws his legs up closer so she will not squash his toes. "Drink that all up."

Suspicious. He squints into the opaque depths of the cup, wondering if they have hidden something _nasty_ inside… medicine, or worse.

"It is _milk," _the healer chuckles, an undertone of exasperation in her husky voice. Her hand rests upon his knee. "You are with friends here, little one."

Friends? "I want to go back to Master Ali," he blurts.

Her mouth curves in a smile. "Soon," she promises. "But we need to be sure you are quite well first. Do you remember what happened? Yesterday? In the gymnasium?"

He scratches a funny itch on the side of his nose and gnaws at his lower lip. Oh, yes. In the gymnasium. They had been playing on the obstacle course – the equipment set up for the older initiates and padawans. It had been excellent fun, except for the parts they weren't supposed to use. And he and Garen had been having such a fine time, racing through the course at breakneck speed, rolling, leaping, ducking, climbing, balancing – all over the place, heedless of restrictions…. And then…

"Hm?" the healer prompts, gazing at him very seriously.

"I jumped on the high beam and it fell," he supplies, in a subdued tone. After that, all he remembers is bright blazing pain like explosions, dark and whirling void pulling him under, hands and voices and noise and odd smells and everything bleeding together in a puddle of confusion and hurt. He frowns, recollecting.

"It was a spectacular crash," the Twi'Lek says. The droid takes away his empty tray and fusses about in the background.

"But my arm is fixed," he insists. He thinks it is, anyway. He can't really tell because of the irksome brace holding it immobile. "Why can't I go back?"

"Because you hit your head, child. That can be dangerous. You stay here and rest a little longer, and then we can send you back. After a few more scans."

That sounds horrific. And unnecessary. He clamps his mouth shut and frowns. He does _not_ approve of this plan, and wonders how to make his captor see reason. It is possible, he darkly reflects, that she will keep him here _forever, _ and _scan_ him until he has been crushed to a pulp, ground into tiny pieces, and blasted into oblivion.

He is not having any of _that._

"Would you like to visit the healing garden for a short while?" the healer persists. "DD-2 will accompany you, if you promise to mind her and not to frisk too much."

These are restrictive terms of parole, to be sure, but to stay in this room any longer suddenly seems intolerable. He gives his pledge of honor with a solemn nod, and pokes irritably at the plastoid bumps _still_ affixed to his skin beneath the rumpled gown.

His persecutor relents, a little. "Yes, very well. I think you can be free of those for a few minutes." Her lekku undulate softly as she removes the monitors and sets the equipment to stand-by.

They find him a smaller tunic to wear, though it still falls well below his knees, and some soft boots for his feet. The pastel, matronly droid is waiting for him near the door with outstretched hand, but he does not accept the coddling gesture. He is man enough to follow his escort down the polished and sterile corridor all on his own.

He has not escaped yet, but he is going _somewhere,_ and that is a start.

* * *

After a short wait, another droid appears, with a portable table and stools, full place settings, a steaming tray of food and drink, and General Puggil in tow.

The enemy beams affably as the automated staff lay out a passable dinner for two and uncork the vintage. He takes a seat, as though this were the wardroom aboard his private cruiser, and waves his prisoner-guest onto the opposite stool. "Please, join me. It is a very great honor to meet you face to face, General. Your reputation precedes you."

Warily, the captive lowers himself into place. "I wish I could say the feeling is reciprocal."

Puggil's jowls quiver when he laughs. "The briefing materials never quite do justice to a man's _character, _ though they may chronicle his exploits. Would you not agree?" He pours a generous quantity of wine for both of them.

"Possibly." The real question is, whether the fare so alluringly presented upon his plate contains something _nasty- _ poison, or worse. He smiles dryly, and switches his own portion with the Separatist officer's, watching the man's face and prodding subtly with the Force.

He still can't feel it properly. It is like swimming in thick mud when he ought to be soaring on limitless wind.

Another chuckle from his adversary. Puggil loosens his belt and pointedly tucks in to his meal. "I assure you, the galley droids' programming circumvents any such cloak and dagger business. Please, consider yourself among friends here."

He snorts heartily at that, and bluntly asks the question foremost on his mind. "What is it? A drug?"

The traitor opposite feigns incomprehension. "Pardon?"

"Don't play stupid."

Puggil swallows his last mouthful, and sighs. "I really don't know. Count Dooku supplied us with it, at his own expense, with instructions to use it in case we should need to… subdue… a Jedi visitor. I am a military man, like yourself; when the order is passed down, I must obey. I trust it is not _too_ inconvenient?"

He brushes this fatuous inquiry aside and samples the wine. It is excellent. "Is this part of Dooku's orders?" He waves a hand at the table, the food, the cut crystal goblets. The former Jedi _does _ have exquisite taste, and deep pockets. And foibles.

But Puggil shakes his head. "No, no – but there is no need to be uncivilized when one General entertains another. I have my mandates, but I choose to fulfill them in a manner consonant with my conscience and good breeding."

Bluster. "You fear him."

The man opposite flushes a telltale crimson, though he maintains a bland demeanor. "No, no – only in the sense that I possess a healthy respect for his extraordinary _powers. As I do for yours. I do hope you will interpret the present ah, personal inconvenience, as a mark of respect. It is meant in the most complimentary fashion."_

He leans back, tipping the stool onto one plastoid leg. "You are aware that I could still kill you with my bare hands."

Puggil's smile is a trifle sickly. "But you won't. I read your profile very carefully."

_Blast it**. **_He acknowledges the stalemate by draining his glass. The food is good, too, and he eats with healthy appetite. He _is_ famished, and Force knows when he might get another meal.

The Separatist polishes off his own glass and pours another ."So, not to dwell upon a sore point, but it is clear your attack squadrons were not expecting the new defensive measures."

This is a gross understatement, and they both know it. "The shield dome was effective," he grudgingly admits.

"Your counterattack on our vultures was also most effective," Puggil admits, generously. "That was a costly skirmish for us. Your last maneuver was, if I may so, inspired. Until the crash, of course."

He shrugs. "If you cannot succeed discreetly, be sure to fail spectacularly."

"Is that Jedi koan?"

"No…. It's a prediction. Regarding the Confederacy's cause."

His host smiles indulgently. "Ah, yes – visions of the future, is it? Mystical foresight?"

He quirks a very dry smile in his turn. "I have a feeling about it."

This proves mildly upsetting to his interlocutor. A cough and an awkward pause, then, "I trust that the medical droid has provided excellent service and that you are comfortable here. It will be my very great pleasure to have you as my guest for a short while before I am obliged to hand you over to High Command."

"You are too kind."

Puggil stands, and gestures for his servants to tidy up the mess. "I would offer you a tour of the facilities, naturally, but…. I am sure you understand it is quite impossible under the circumstances."

A curt and sarcastic bow.

The General fiddles with his belt fixture and returns the courteous gesture. "I look forward to our next conversation, General. " And with these words, he takes his leave, the droid porters dragging out the table and soiled tray behind him.

There are _twenty_ armed escort battle-bots in the corridor beyond. They clank away on Puggil's heels, leaving the prisoner in relative isolation with only the med-droid for company.

He has not escaped yet, but he has opened negotiations – and that is a start.


	3. Chapter 3

**Missing In Action**

* * *

**III.**

He meditates in the small indoor garden at the medward's center.

Illumination banks overhead mimic natural light, and a moist humidity rises from the various green things tucked artfully in corners and niches, creating the illusion of depth and space. Water dribbles serenely along a groomed cataract, and reed chimes send fluting notes cascading along the continuous burble of the stream. They gust faintly in the 'cycled air, but their music suggests expanse, and harmony.

He is distracted for a moment by a desire to see whether there are fish in the tiny stream, and is disappointed. Someday he would like to _see_ a proper fish, with scales and a magnificent tail-fin. And _gills,_ like his friend Bant. But only shadows flit beneath the shallow curves of this water, and his own reflection.

DD-2 obligingly withdraws to a respectful distance when he kneels alongside the narrow pathway in a miniature grotto. The droid is programmed to be a helpful denizen of the Temple, and therefore will not interfere with _Jedi business. _This thought intrigues him. Will he also be left to his own devices if he, say, _levitates_ something?

The experiment must be made, and so it is.

Sadly, his mischievous telekinetic transfer of the footpath's gravel into the fountain does _not_ pass unnoticed. DD-2 is there in a trice, clucking at him to desist. Apparently he is not allowed to have _any _ fun at all.

"Can't I play?" he wheedles. "Just a little?"

"No, no, no," DD-2 soothes him, "You must rest and heal first."

But this is _nonsense._ He is healed, isn't he? And he has been resting for a very, very, very long time, well past the boundaries of his tolerance. And besides that, he does not like the smell of bacta and stale incense here, nor the itchy monitor thingummies, nor the machines crowding round his cot, nor the disappointing food, nor the poking and prodding, and especially, particularly not the way he is far from home where he belongs with his friends and Master Ali, who would not do any of these horrid things to him. "And I don't need any medicine, either!" he warns his cybernetic nursemaid.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," the droid hums, dismissively.

He crosses his arms and pouts, just a bit. It is clear his present line of attack is going to get him nowhere fast.

He is going to have to do this the hard way.

* * *

He meditates in the center of the sterile chamber currently serving as detention cell.

He can _feel_ the Light, but it is weirdly _filtered, _as though a quasi-porous net stands between him and the universe itself, as though he is a polluted glass, grimed and gummed with muck, once transparent but now almost opaque with accrued filth. What should be sonorous bells chiming in his innermost heart are vague echoes, tolling without tone, the ache of compression and disharmony.

He is distracted for a moment by a philosophical side-note: there is no such thing as a Force inhibitor, strictly speaking. The universal Life energy cannot be suppressed or thwarted; it is the condition of existence, the underpinning of that which might seek to eradicate it. When the sages speak of an "energy field" they employ a metaphor, just as the Light is not _literally _equated with spectral band radiation. No, the Force itself cannot be dampened in such fashion – but there are unfortunately a plethora of means by which a cunning adept of biochemistry, or else the Dark, can wreak havoc on an individual nervous system. Some occult few of them are profoundly disruptive enough to do _this_, even to a Jedi master.

The medical droid maintains a respectful distance while he sits meditation lotus upon the smooth floor. Its prime directive, instilled by its programmers, is to do no harm – not to interfere with its patients' healing processes, even if it is meanwhile also employed as sentry. It must recognize his traditional contemplative pose – and this thought intrigues him. How far do such parameters of tolerance extend? For instance, were he to _levitate _an object in this room, would the droid still remain a passive observer?

The experiment must be made, and so it is.

Sadly, his attempt to manipulate the Force is doomed to failure; he cannot so much as lift the coverlet from the narrow cot behind him. Nor can he fiddle with the door controls, nor even short –circuit out the droid itself. He is… crippled. At least for the time being. But that raises another interesting question, doesn't it?

He turns to the med unit and demands his answer, squarely. "You administered something…. unconventional. By special order. What was it?"

The droid stirs, placidly consulting its databanks. "A patented injectable slow-release serum for suppression of paranormal activity," it reports, blandly. "Scans indicate no deleterious effect upon basal metabolism or basic circadian neurological function."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and leans forward. "It's not healthy. You need to neutralize it."

But his appeal falls on deaf ears. Not that the droid _has _ ears. It hums for a moment or two, then retorts with, "Reversal of treatment is contraindicated. Paranormal telekinetic and idiorhythmic activity is not within the standard optimal physiologic function for a human. "

"It's normal for _me,"_ he grouses, under his breath. Clearly his present line of argument is futile.

He is going to have to do this _the hard way._

* * *

His brief respite is interrupted by the reappearance of his devoted healer.

"Come with me," she orders.

He obeys – automatically, instinctively - but halfway down the unfamiliar hall on the left-hand side, he begins to have misgivings. They are not headed for the exit, or even his erstwhile quarters, but deeper into the bowels of this shady medical realm.

"Where are we going?" he asks, slowing his pace until he is lagging a cautious distance behind his tall Twi'Lek guide.

Her blue robes rustle as she halts and turns, dropping down to one one knee. Her eyes are liquid brown, warm and inviting, but he does not therefore hand over his heart on a platter. The corridor stinks of something sickly-sweet and cloying, and a terrible thought forms itself in his mind.

"I'm not going in batca!"

"_**B**__ac-ta." _The healer sighs and holds out a hand. "Come speak to me."

He takes one polite step forward but lingers just outside grabbing range, lower lip clenched firmly between teeth. He has _seen _the giant tank of gloppy ooze inside the chamber just beyond, and he has _heard_ that they drown people in it, all the way under for a long long time, and he finds the very notion revolting.

"You wish to return home to the crèche as soon as possible," the blue-skinned healer murmurs, reasonably. "And here is a way to accelerate your healing. It is a pathway to something good, so you should look upon it as something good."

It is not a _pathway _to anything, it is a puddle of viscous glop, and it is disgusting. This is patently obvious. "I don't need to baccelerate healing," he insists, wondering how much trouble he would be in were he to dart backward down the hall, and how far the main exit is from here. DD-2 is hovering up the corridor behind them, unfortunately – blocking his only means of egress.

His interlocutor releases another long breath. "Come let me show you what it is. Maybe it is not so bad as you think."

Cunning trap. His heart raps smartly against his sternum, warning him of danger ahead. But he has little choice but cooperation, for the present moment. Addressing the polished floor, he mutters his acquiescence. "Yesmaster."

Hand smothered in a firm grip, he is led into the house of horrors just past the next threshold. There are machines _everywhere,_ and looming tanks, some empty, one or two half-full of sloshing liquid. It clings, thickly, to the sides of the cylindrical containers, dribbling rivulets running slowly into a translucent meniscus around the edges. It _reeks_ of something strong, organic, slightly offensive. Once when they were given a tour of the kitchens, he got a glimpse – and a whiff – of the yeast cultures used to make bread. This smells similar. His skin crawls, imagining himself _dunked_ beneath the slimy surface of the nearest tank.

He must be wide-eyed, for the healer turns him by the shoulders, away from the riveting spectacle, and shows him a small breathing mask. He knows what this is because Garen and he like to pore over the field manuals in the Archives, and have pestered Master Ali about various tools and equipment in the holos until their patient crechemaster is driven to the point of distraction. There are all sorts of clever inventions for helping one breathe in toxic environments, or zero atmosphere, or prolonged underwater immersion. It is worth noting that all the circumstances which involve such apparatus are also potentially life-threatening. Little wonder then, that he does not find the present technical explication particularly encouraging.

Also, his arm hurts and itches, and his belly is growling for real food, and he just_ wants to go home. _ His attention wanders far, far away from the present moment , in which his captor blathers on about standard of care and regenerative properties and 'a mild sedative', whatever that is– until his focus comes crashing back down to jarring immediacy when the prickle of cold air sets the hairs on his skin upright. He realizes with a start that the healer is brusquely helping him out of his long tunic, and that DD-2 is waiting in the wings with a gleaming thing that is _alarmingly_ like a hypo.

"Now?" he peeps, ice sliding in his belly. It is difficult to appear _adamant_ and _fierce _ when one Is shivering in one's undershorts, but he thrusts out his chin and chest and folds his arms and scowls fit melt a glacier.

He stands his ground even as they close in around him, two incontrovertible powers against which he stands no chance of victory.

And that is when – miraculously, inexplicably – the power generator shorts out and they are all plunged into pitch darkness.

* * *

His brief respite is interrupted by the reappearance of Puggil.

"Another word with you," the man requests, almost apologetically.

He nods – automatically, instinctively – because diplomacy is as natural to him as breathing. The Separatist commander smiles thinly and gestures behind himself – to the corridor outside the glimmering energy barrier. Another droid escort loiters in the cramped hallway, pushing a hovering ovoid shape, a thing of dull black plastoid, imbedded with external control panels.

"What is _that?" _he asks, a suspicion already well-formed in his mind.

Puggil casts about for a place to sit, and settles ruefully upon the single cot. He spreads both hands, pacifically. "That is a _stasis_ capsule," he explains, voice pitched to convey a textured distaste. He sighs, and glances through the shimmering barrier. There is another , rather ominous, droid floating just behind the nearest rank of droids, a jellyfish with sharp, double reticulated tentacles and an assuredly _poisonous_ intent. "My superior… has, ah…. suggested – "

"He should know better than to think that will work."

Puggil casts another embarrassed glance at the menacing interrogation droid. "Yes, I rather thought it was bombast, myself. The order came down couched as an ultimatum, actually." A small moue follows this confidence.

"Oh?" It really is insulting that Dooku would suppose him vulnerable to _torture._ With or without full connection to the Force, there are certain things he will _not_ be bent to against his will, and treason is one of them. "I talk under duress, or…?"

The Confederacy officer rises, with a tiny grimace. "Or you are to be sent direct to High Command. Hence the stasis capsule."

"I see." He is not going to cooperate with any form of interrogation, and he is equally not going to permit himself to be put in a state of suspended animation for the sake of expedient _shipment. _ Does Puggil really suppose a squadron of armed guards is going to be able to effectively subdue and restrain him? He frowns, reconsidering the odds himself - there is _something_ to be said for this filthy inhibitor business, after all. On a normal day he would not even blink at the clanking troupe outside the door. Now, however…. He opts to extend the negotiations. "I take it you would prefer to find a civilized third option?"

"Yes, yes indeed." The General takes up a stance in front of the barrier, hands folded behind his back, jowls quivering as he proposes the terms of compromise. "I am under no illusion that your capture is to be credited to my superior skill. Let us say it was a serendipity of circumstance; however, as a field commander you will no doubt sympathize with my desire to capitalize on the happy chance. I am also under no illusion that this… encounter… will come at no cost to my outpost's resources. These battle droids are expensive, and I have the greatest respect for your talents and abilities."

The man was infuriatingly verbose; his circumlocution threatened to spiral into a dissertation. "Meaning…?"

Puggil bounced on his toes once or twice, assessing the med droid in the corner with slatted eyes. He seemed to judge its confidentiality programming reliable, for he took a deep breath and launched into the business proper. "It would be mutually satisfactory were you to provide me with a few choice items of intelligence, and I to provide you with the opportunity to escape. "

It is tempting to laugh. He strokes one hand over his beard, masking his incipient smirk. "You mean that your punishment for incompetence would be abrogated in light of the information you purportedly wrested from your Jedi prisoner prior to his unfortunate disappearing act?"

The Separatist officer flinches, slightly, but this is clearly what he means. It is a neat solution, giving each of them what he desires, with a minimum of fuss and destruction on both sides. It would be an elegant solution, worthy of a master diplomat, if not for one tiny inconvenient detail.

"I will not betray the Republic."

"Come now," his host reasons with him, "Surely you would do your Republic a greater disservice by allowing yourself to remain in custody. You underestimate your own value as an asset. The lives you have yet to save, the leadership you provide… perhaps a valued colleague who benefits from your mentoring? – these must outweigh what little damage might be done by a few choice _disclosures_ of tactical particulars."

His brows rise. Puggil is smarter than he looks. But still wallowing in fallacy. "Future contingencies do not excuse present weakness. "

There is a stilted, uncomfortable silence.

"I take it that is your final word, General?"

"As you say."

With a regretful shake of the head, Puggil deactivates the door barrier and summons the convocation of mechanized guards – and the hideous 'interrogation' droid – into the cell. "Then I fear we have been forced to resort to savagery."

The prisoner stands his ground placidly even as they close in upon him, a massed bank of powers confident in their own victory.

And that is when – miraculously, inexplicably – the power generator shorts out and they are all plunged into utter darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Missing In Action**

* * *

**IV**

He ducks and runs, rolling fluidly beneath DD-2's hovering carapace and darting for the door. The somersault makes his arm _throb_ and he bites his lip, muffling the hot yell of pain that wells up in his throat.

Outside, the whole corridor is in blackness; a few sputtering moments and tiny blue emergency lights appear at the junction of floor and wall, illumining his bare feet as he sprints headlong down its length. Other people appear in the hall, shouting instructions and calling for droids – he scampers, dodging a cart here and a machine there, pulse drumming frantically in his ears.

Home. Home. Which way is _out?_

And then the Twi-Lek healer's voice raps out his name – first _and_ last, very tart and impatient – and he lays on more speed. He cannot be caught now, not when he is so _close_ to freedom, to escape. He skids round a corner, hearing the rapid footfalls behind him, and scrabbles against the near wall, seeking a doorway, an outlet. His fingers find the edge of a hatchway, a smooth line in the plaster wall, and he shoves the panel hard. It gives beneath his weight, swinging upward into a recessed pocket, and he launches himself into the hole thus created, seizing his window of opportunity in the instant it appears.

He tumbles, head over heels into pitch darkness, the hatch snapping shut behind him.

"Ooof!" His landing is inelegant, but mercifully soft. He smells cloth, cleansing herbs, chemicals and plastoid. He is swaddled in thin sheets, an unruly nest of pillows and blankets beneath his sprawling limbs. He takes a moment to _breathe, _ and to consider his options, which at the moment are reduced to two: stay or keep running. There is also something in the way the healer called his name that tells him he is in _trouble – _that his precipitous departure is likely to be categorized as _naughty behavior_ by most the adults in his life. This is fuel to his fire: he _must_ get back to Ali Alaan, who will sort out the grown-up mess and portect him from the wrath of those who might wish to impose punitive bacta action upon his person.

His heart leaps against his ribs when a door hisses open on pressure pistons, somewhere to his left. He burrows beneath the blankets, hardly daring to breathe. Have they found him _already?_

But the voice that speaks next is unfamiliar, and preoccupied with other matters. "The secondary generator should have kicked in – maybe the solar collection cells overloaded. The back up system can sustain demand for six standard, but the sooner this is fixed the better. Here, move that laundry bin out. We need the space to disassemble these relay panels."

Two of the blipping, impersonal sorts of droids respond with a string of grunts and trills, and before he can quite comprehend what is happening, the bin – for he is _inside_ a large portable container – is trolleyed away on repulsors, vibrating gently around him as it is propelled a short distance,

When the droids' bleeping and tweeting has faded into the distance again, he kneels and peers from beneath his soft, white cover: this new place is vast, and echoing, and full to the brim with crates and boxes, plastoid molded shapes and shelving units. The roof overhead is fretted with strong girders, and illuminator banks are set high among them, flooding the entire expanse with white radiance. The generator is working here, at least.

He thinks it is some kind of storage area, but the important thing is that _nobody else_ is here.

He grins, a fierce delight kindling in his belly and chest. The Force is with him.

* * *

He ducks and runs – which is to say, he seizes the malicious interrogation droid by one articulated arm, spins it savagely in a wide arc, smashing the blaster rifle out of the nearest battle-droid's arm, roundhouse kicks the next droid hard enough to knock its head clean off, rolls beneath the splayed legs of the third, grabs the fallen weapon, pumps the rest of the blundering infantry with short-range plasma bolts, and backflips into the corridor beyond. Another volley of blaster-fire takes out the door controls and sends the emergency lock-down door slamming into place over the opening.

He staggers into the wall, biting his lip to muffle the hot upsurge of imprecation welling in his throat.

Such exertion probably qualifies as _strenuous activity, _ and his dozen half-healed injuries are screaming in protest. One hand on the smooth wall, he takes a moment to _breathe _and reflect.

Three swift conclusions: first – he has about forty seconds to make his initial getaway; second - Puggil doubtless has a sophisticated back-up security plan in place, and this will therefore not be a frolic in the park; third – although he is debarred from conscious manipulation of the Force, it is _still_ with him. Decades of martial training have made his physical connection to the universal life energy a thing innate, reflexive, pre-volitional. In other words, he can still fight like a cornered krayt.

Of course, a decent weapon , in particular his _lightsaber,_ would be nice. He has half a mind to chuck the uncivilized blaster down the corridor, but that would be _stupid._

Time to get a move on. Which way is _out?_

At this point, an amplified public announcement system blares into life – a klaxon alert followed by Puggil's peculiarly nasal voice, addressing him by name.

"General Kenobi – spare us both the humiliation and bother of making a _scene._ Surrender immediately and we can resume our previous conversation. All security units: red alert, prisoner at large on hangar level; protocol three. Repeat: protocol three."

Hangar level? This is good news. He moves forward, hands tracing the smooth surface of the walls as he dashes along the corridor in pitch blackness. Footfalls thunder toward him from two directions – the weirdly synchronized tramp of droid squadrons. His fingers find an aperture in the smooth plastoid to his left at the same moment. Quicker than thought – which may not be wise, but is certainly _effective –_he has shouldered the small hatchway open and is tumbling head over heels down a steep chute and into-

He catches himself at the very terminus of the slanted tunnel, hands and feet braced against its slick sides, back and shoulder muscles stridently objecting to the exercise. A putrid odor wafts up to him from below, alerting him to the presence of a refuse collection pit a handful of meters beneath his body.

_Blast._

Still, the droid patrols tramp along the hall, confer briefly with one another and move onward, stymied edgesby his apparent disappearance. He grins, trying not to breathe through his nose, and sets his mind to the present predicament. He has no intention of falling into the pungent swill beneath him. For a moment he wallows in an ironic enjoyment of his situation, but even as he chuckles sardonically at his own plight, his eyes adjust to the blackness. Or, at least, they pick out shapes limned vaguely in a subtle phosphorescent glow.

Ah, yes. Some of the microbes used to break down garbage emit a pale bioluminescence. In the light of these glowing bacterial cultures, he can trace the crossbeams of the compaction machinery, a series of balance beams and gymnastic equipment rising from the chambers sides to the maintenance access hatch far overhead.

Perfect.

He grimaces, gauging the distance he will have to jump – _propel_ himself awkwardly through the air – to make a safe landing. It can't be any worse than the obstacle course in the Temple's junior gymnasium, though, can it?

Gasping with the effort, he launches himself in a tight somersault, rolling once and _grabbing_ the thin beam. He misses his landing and ends up dangling by both hands, bare feet a revolting centimeter's distance from the suppurating froth at the pit's top, but this is better than actually _falling. _He heaves himself onto the beam, curses under his breath because his ribs _crack_ under pressure and a hot wave of pain lances along his flank, and then peers upward.

One more jump, as sloppy and amateurish as the last, and he is straddling the highest bit of scaffolding. The maintenance hatch is overhead, and his fingers pry at its edges, eventually loosing the panel enough to slide it open. He is momentarily blinded by white light, a glimpse of girders overhead, the hint of a vast and echoing space filled to the brim with stacked crates and plastoid containers, glaring in the bright radiance. The power generator is working here, at least.

He hears no clank and creak of droids, nor any sentients' voices, so he gratefully squirms his way up and out, retching a little on the lingering effluvia of the septic tank. His limbs are shaking with even this trifling effort, and he squats down in the shadowed alcove of a towering crate, catching his wind and taking stock of his surroundings.

It is clearly a storage bay but the important thing is that _nobody else_ is here.

He grins, a fierce delight kindling in his chest and belly. The Force is _with_ him.

* * *

There are all _sorts_ of things stacked and piled in the warehouse, some of them sealed up in boxes much larger than he is, some of them laid out on shelves or palettes. Around a corner, he discovers a hover-sled loaded with boxes and cartons of _food._ There is a round plastoid barrel of _muja fruits,_ and several tall shapes labeled in aurebesh letters. His fingers trace over the familiar forms, and he sounds out some of the names, but his academic curiosity is abruptly curtailed by the sound of footsteps and voices, these living and not droid.

He ducks and crouches among the foodstuffs, surreptitiously pocketing a muja while he is at it.

"Did you hear? One of the younglings got loose from the infirmary and is on the lam… keep your eyes peeled."

This voice belongs to a docent, or perhaps the kitchen manager – one of the kindly staff members who perform various housekeeping duties about the Temple. Reflexively, he tries to make himself _disappear;_ golden light seems to condense about him, shield and veil at once. He curls in on himself, knees to chest, and quiets his breathing until he is barely _there._

Footfalls, friendly chatter, and then the grav-sled moves – he is being carted away!

His mind races: food – kitchen- refectory- lunchtime- crèche – Ali Alaan – home.

_Yes._ He is almost free. If only he can evade capture long enough to make it back. He cannot wait to regale his friends with an account of his misadventures and daring escape. Garen is going to _love_ this story.

He hunkers down in his chosen hiding place and bides his time, while his unwitting escort propels him safely through enemy territory.

* * *

There is a plethora of ordnance and tech parts stockpiled in Puggil's warehouse, most of it sealed in pressurized shipping crates but a few items laid out upon shelves or stacked on palettes. Around a corner, he discovers a gravsled loaded with new fusion-inverter power cells, the sort required to sustain a defensive energy dome. The cylindrical casings are labeled with standard radiation warnings and the guild mark of their manufacturer, Baktoid Armories. He traces fingers over the print, scanning the elaborate legal disclaimers the foundry has appended to its product, but his morbid curiosity is abruptly curtailed by the sound of footsteps and voices, these living and not droid.

**Blast. **He needs to be more careful; normally he would have sensed newcomers before they arrived – it is difficult to remember that he is half-blind. There is no other cover, so he ducks and crouches between the rows of power cells, back pressed against the cool convexity of the nearest one.

"Fierfek. Aerial assault outside while we've got a prisoner on the lam here. What else can go wrong?"

This voice belongs to a petty officer, or a harried subaltern – he recognizes the exasperated timbre of a man who is expected to clean up the messes made by his superiors, and who barely outranks his own underlings. Reflexively, he attempts ot shield with the Force, but of course, nothing happens. He is left all but holding his breath and practicing the _dead man_ kata, absolute stillness, his breath the merest wafting of hot moisture, his presence as rigid and motionless as the looming battery-casings surrounding him.

"Ah, not to worry – this level is all bio-code locks. He can't even get past the doors."

"True. Just creeps me out, knowing we gotta Jedi inside the perimeter, ya know?"

"Never mind that chisszzk – I'm more worried about that dome. C'mon – let's move it."

Footfalls, disgruntled muttering, and then the grav-sled moves. The incompetent _chosski_ are carting him away past their vaunted security locked doors, providing him with a means of infiltration so _elegant,_ so perfect, that it sets his mind to racing.

Never mind escape. He could bring the whole protective dome down, enabling the republic assault force to penetrate far into the interior, possibly taking out the munitions center – and part of the advanced fleet.

_Yes._ Victory from the jaws of defeat. Presuming, of course, that he can evade capture long enough to effect his risky stratagem. But what is life without impossible odds? He begins formulating an appropriately wry narrative of this misadventure, for recounting off the official record; Anakin is going to absolutely love _this_ story.

He hunkers down in his chosen hiding place and bides his time, while his unwitting escorts propel him safely through the security doors and deep into enemy territory.


	5. Chapter 5

**Missing in Action**

* * *

**V**

Getting into enemy territory is simple; it is getting out again that poses difficulties.

But he is not thinking about that at the present moment. Instead, he is busy justifying to himself why this escapade does not, truly really, qualify as _naughty behavior. _This takes utmost priority in his private meditations because above all else he does not wish to be _obnoxious_ like Bruck Chun, with his sneering smile and sharp tongue and furtive disobedience. He reasons, very soberly, that since he never _assented_ to be held prisoner in the healer's ward he is not bound by honor to remain there. He is not breaking a promise.

Although, disturbingly, he does recall giving his word to _mind_ DD-2 and not to frolic too much. He gnaws at his lower lip as his makeshift conveyance is trundled into a lift and down to a lower level. Well.. perhaps this is not exactly a _frolic._ It has none of the gaiety or joy of a romp in the arboretum, certainly. And as for minding the droid, she/it never gave him explicit orders to stay put, so that doesn't… doesn't _count._ At least, not mostly. He twists his face in dissatisfaction, for his rationalizing seems a _tad_ flimsy even to his own ears.

He resolves to throw himself upon the crechemaster's mercy, so soon as he makes it home. This is no time for casuistical scruples.

Besides, as soon as the heavily laden grav-sled enters the kitchens proper, his attention is arrested by other, and much more pressing matters. For one thing, several grown-up voices are discussing _him_ – which is always intriguing to the utmost degree. He leans forward, listening intently.

"..Not to worry, he'll show up. It doesn't happen often, but I remember one or two other occasions. They'll locate him sooner or later. The padawans will all be put onto it – a sort of hunt, you know."

The fugitive's eyes widen. A hunt? All the tall, admirable _apprentices,_ with their lightsabers and tabards and dangling braids, searching for him like a foxill on the run? His heart pounds loud in his veins, and then he feels the thrill of adrenaline. He will not be caught. He must not be. He has a _job_ to do, and he will _do _ it. His breathing ratchets into a more rapid rhythm, flooding him with new resolve. Ambitious padawans or not, he is a free man, and so will he remain.

"….I know, but I do fret all the same. When all's said and done, they _are_ just children."

What? He is not just a child! He is a Jedi _warrior._ Or at least, he will be, someday.

"…Hope he doesn't get hurt ," the other voice finished.

He scoffs at the naïve sentiment. Getting hurt is what started all this _absurd nonsense_ in the first place.

"….and if they don't, I'm sure one or two of the Masters will ferret him out. A tyke like that won't give them any trouble at all."

The very idea of Jedi masters _coming to get him_ sends a chilling cascade of ice into his belly. He does have a healthy sense of his own limits, whatever _some people_ might say to the contrary. And he does not impute to himself sufficient skill to evade the Temple's revered _elders._

Before surprise can solidify into panic, however, he is presented with a much more immediate and concrete problem. The cart with all its contents is being shoved into another, much smaller space – muffling dark and an arctic blast of frigid air suddenly swallow him whole. His wits are temporarily knocked sideways by the unexpected and radical change of milieu – but he peers from between two crates and spies rows of other goods arranged neatly on shelves. There is a dusting of fine frost on the upper surface of each.

He sucks in a sharp breath, clutching his bare arms tight to his chest and deeply regretting his lack of proper attire.

This is a _refrigeration_ unit. The door slams shut, sealing him in an icy prison, just as the fateful realization dawns.

Oh , not good.

* * *

Getting into enemy territory is simple ; it is _extricating _oneself again which poses the major difficulty.

However, he has deferred consideration of this latter _complication_ until later. First things first – and high on his priority list right now, second only to wreaking havoc on the Separatist defense network, is the elaborate justification it will require to convince Anakin that this is not, technically, a situation from which he needs to be rescued. True, his plan at the moment involves neutralizing the energy dome so that Republic forces can penetrate CIS headquarters, bringing his former padawan swooping in just in time for an _extraction. _But that is a routine part of many wartime missions nowadays. He plays bait, and Anakin dives in for the ambush while the foe is distracted. Neither of them, in their better moments, would be so foolish as to suppose such legerdemain and dramatics count as a bona fide rescue.

Also: since it is Anakin's _fault_ that his fighter crashed – because unauthorized 'upgrades' to his personal starcraft resulted in massive technical failure – it behooves the cocky young hero to make up for damages and crimes committed by saving the day. However, in the scales of reckoning, righting one's mistakes and cleaning up the chaos left in the wake of one's own mechanical audacity do not _count_ as a rescue, any more than paying off a debt can be called turning a profit.

This is not to say he would not be immensely glad to _see_ his friend and former student, at the young Jedi's soonest possible convenience. He is working at a certain disadvantage here, what with the crash and injuries and being drugged to the gills with stars know what filthy toxic cocktail, and he is not too proud to accept competent back-up when it arrives, so long as aforesaid help does not claim too many bragging rights post facto. He is not _worried_ about present circumstances, per se; he would simply prefer to tackle them in company.

If these rationalizations sound a tad _flimsy,_ even to his own ears, he ignores the fact. Now is no time for casuistical scruples.

Besides, as soon as the heavily-laden grav sled comes to a halt inside an industrial lift, his attention is arrested by other, and much more pressing matters. One of the minor officers has taken a call via his commlink, and the content of that exchange revolves primarily around _himself –_ a conversation topic which, under the circumstances, he must find intriguing in the utmost degree, and for reasons that have more to do with survival than ego.

"We've swept the other levels and found no trace – he must be in the infrastructure or the vehicle bays," Puggil's voice rasps over the link.

"With respect, sir, there is no way –"

"Do not commit the folly of _making_ _assumptions_where one of these Jedi is concerned," the man's superior retorts. "I've put in an emergency requisition for a drivok hunter. Just be sure your people are cleared out of all stations but the essentials."

There is a significant pause, in which he has occasion to wonder what in stars' name a _drivok_ is, and also to wonder why the very mention of this unknown entity sets the hairs at his nape prickling. No doubt if he could properly _commune _ with the Force, he would have a very bad feeling about this. Still, whatever else the person or creature so named might be, it is a 'hunter' and _that_ floods him with new resolve. He will not be so easily run to ground, like a foxill cowering in its hole. Woe betide any hunter who discovers this quarry; he is quite accustomed to playing for the highest stakes against the worst odds. In fact – though he is loathe to admit it, even to himself – there is a part of him that has come to _enjoy_ the sort of _inspired_ gambling with which Qui-Gon Jinn used to absolutely terrify and astound him.

He has come a long way. And also, the sheer _audacity_ of it, the absolute dependence on the will of the Force, blunts the serrated edge of war, the incessant pressure of universal strife. Some men in these times have turned to drink, or deathsticks, to alleviate the pain. He and Anakin, he sometimes thinks, have turned instead to _heroics._ This merits further reflection – later. For now….

"And keep a select squadron on hand . Once the prisoner is located, I want him taken _alive._ Only use the elite droids. I don't trust the infantry models."

"Sir… it might be necessary to approach the Jedi with extreme prejudice – "

"Those are my orders! High Command wants him in one piece, do you hear? Stop sniveling and do as you're told, man."

"Right away, sir," comes the curt response.

The lift doors hiss open again, issuing them into another echoing and cavernous space. Light and dark flit overhead in striating bands; the subliminal hum of a massive power plant beats against his eardrums They must be very near the dome generator now – right at the vulnerable heart of this operation. The higher-pitched thrum of repulsors and the clank of droid feet draw nigh. Before sensory input can solidify into a specific plan of action, however, he is presented with a much more immediate and concrete problem.

"We need these new power cells installed immediately," the petty officer orders. "Enemy bombardment has drained the existing sources to dangerous levels. Seal off the generator chamber and drop to minus one sixty- there's no time for proper thermal equalization."

"Roger, roger," the cybernetic maintenance crew drones.

A moment later, footfalls herald the departure of the two men – and a blast of arctic wind issues form a powerful vent-fan high overhead.

_Blast._ The transfer of volatile battery components has to made at extreme sub-zero temperatures. The technical details come tumbling into his mind from deeply buried memory, from Anakin's constant prattling about mechanics, from snatches of schematics and manuals he has perused over the years. Already the air pump is very effectively leaching warmth from the room, bringing everything in the chamber down to a safe, non-reactive inertia.

Including him. He folds his arms tight across his chest, deeply regretting his _absurd_ attire and focusing _intensely_ on this new predicament. Without full command of the Force, he cannot maintain his basal temperature for more than a handful of minutes.

The outer blast doors seal shut, sealing him in an icy prison, just as the fateful realization dawns.

_Oh not good._

* * *

The door is a solid panel, thick and impermeable by sound. Its inner surface is flocked with a snowy crystalline velvet, slick to the touch yet delicate in appearance. And the control panel – the touch plate which causes this immensely heavy slab to slide open – is a meter above his head. He saw it before the door shut.

He jumps, but he cannot quite reach it. His arm _hurts - _ much more than before, because of the cold, and his breath is coming short and sharp, as though he cannot get enough air. Chest aching, he turns on the spot, blinking back stinging frustration and something else, the slimy stirring of queasiness beneath his ribs.

He is not _afraid._ If he were, then he would be calling for help. Which would be tantamount to surrender. And that is one thing he will not do. So he will not call out – and therefore, obviously, he is not afraid.

Shuddering violently, he holds out his hands and _thinks_ about pushing the touch plate, but all he can focus upon is _cold cold cold cold…._ His teeth are chattering a frantic percussion line, and his exhalations comes out as dense clouds, puffs of vapor that slowly melt on his cheeks. He cannot _see_ them but he knows they are there, dissolving into the pitch blackness much as he himself must be… into the endless black of space. He can _feel _ things on all sides, the closeness of the walls, but the absence of sight makes this place a vast tomb, an underworld without beginning or end.

He crouches down in a miserable ball, pummeled on all sides by merciless cold, and sniffles because his nose has started running in the chill. As he squirms in place, his numb toes bump against something hard and round on the floor – his stolen muja fruit, dropped and forgotten in the preoccupation of the moment.

His breath catches. His mind _clicks._ His fingers close about the familiar object, seeing it under an entirely novel aspect.

And then the half-frozen fruit sails through the frigid air and smacks the door control plate with a satisfying thud.

The panel obligingly slides open, and he pelts head-first into freedom, skidding wildly on the polished floor tiles, gasping as warmth and light spill over his senses in a thundering cataract of relief.

* * *

The generator chamber is sealed by massive blast panels, thick and impermeable by sound, heat, blaster fire, or anything else besides. Already their inner surfaces are flocked with a slick coating of frost, glinting dully in the dim phosphorescence of the generator tower itself, looming like a ragged stalagmite in the center of the domed space.

The only outlet is the grille – high at the apex of this curved roof – form which the bitter cascade of air pours in, behind which must be a high-power vacuum pump and inversion core. He has no _hope_ of jumping so far, and he has no _hope_ of manipulating the controls to this death-dealing piece of machinery on his present crippled state.

He drops to one knee between the freezing power cells, gritting his teeth against the renewed _ache _and burn brought on by the rapidly – dangerously – dropping temperature. Why is it that cold exacerbates every ill, up to the point where it dulls them into a fatal oblivion? Cold is the cruelty of void, of nothingness, of despair, the antithesis of Life. His brilliant plan has landed him _here,_ in a sanctuary of soulless technology, without weapon or the Force.

He is not _desperate,_of course. If that were the case, he would resort to surrender – for surely if he draws attention to his presence, the droid attendants will cease the cooling cycle, call in reinforcements, and hand him over to the security forces. That is _not_ an option he will ever choose – and so he is not yet desperate. IN the absence of 'saber or powers beyond those granted by simple animal nature, he is going to have to use his head.

He grins, one corner of his mouth tweaking up in sardonic delight. Well, either that or _somebody else's _head.

He pulls the stolen blaster from his waistband and hefts it in one hand, eyeing the elaborate gymnasium structure presented by the generator core. A high scaffolding surrounds it, reaching nearly to the ceiling; with some skill and not a little luck…..

…he would still be mad to try it.

He steps from his place of concealment, standing as jauntily as his shaking limbs permit. The droid workers swivel on the spot in astonishment.

"Hello there."

"Intruder! Halt!" they chorus, in unison.

At which point he blows both their heads off their bulky metallic shoulders with two expertly aimed shots.

This is _so uncivilized,_ but he hasn't time to regret his actions. He drops the spent blaster, tucks the fallen droid heads beneath one arm, and sets to climbing the _freezing _scaffolding as quickly as his injured body will permit. Breath rasping in short, hot clouds of vapor, he struggles upward, bare feet slipping precariously on the exposed beams. At the summit, he finds the anode relay points and knocks the current dampening circuits out of place. They clatter to the decks many meters below, beside the fallen bodies of the droids.

A bit of undignified grunting and pushing, and he has wedged the severed heads into place between the relays. Droids are built of non-conductive materials, for obvious reasons – but it is only a matter of time before the cybernetic processors fry out under pressure and start an overload chain reaction inside the generator matrix. Anakin has taught him a thing or two over the years, in the Wreaking Havoc department.

And now he has only to clamber his way to the very apex of the structure – wobbling, unsteady, determinedly not focused on the potential drop – and pry the vent cover off. It is nasty work, and almost sends him overbalancing three times. At last the grille is separated, and he _heaves_ himself into the tunnel beyond, crawling like a pathetic, groveling _worm_ until he finds an intersection in the vent shaft.

He falls facefirst into the smaller section, escaping the punishing blast of cold. He lies there, wrung out, pulse drumming wildly at his temples, breath coming in great gasps of exhaustion. Relative warmth, and a dim, flitered light spill over his senses in a thundering cataract of relief.


	6. Chapter 6

**Missing in Action**

* * *

**VI**

Hands make desperate snatches at him as he jinks and jukes among legs, carts, hovering droids. His bare feet skid on the smooth floor, raw adrenaline-driven instinct guiding him under, between, through obstacles in a wild whirligig evasion. Voices call to him, shout over him, and then bark at one another to alert "the masters."

He lays on more speed.

Outside the kitchens proper lies a service corridor, presently empty, and then a series of doors. One issues onto a lower level refectory. He dodges and rolls into the serving area, then scuttles beneath the closest cover, which is a table set in the far corner.

He tucks his knees up against his chest, for he is still cold, and tries to _disappear._ He does the same when he and his crèche-mates play hide and seek. He rather thinks he is _good _at this particular game, but Garen assures him that he _leaks_ and is easily located. From his new vantage point, all he can see are the bases and supports of tables, benches, chairs, and a wide variety of boots, all of them buckled and strapped, some of them scuffed, others polished, all of them much larger than _his_ feet.

Eventually his pulse settles into a less frantic pace, and he can hear the murmur and rustle of quiet conversation, sounds of eating. The grown-ups are far more _sedate_ than his own habitual dining companions. Other feet wander among the tables, accompanied by voices laced with urgency and a hint of … amusement? There are several brief exchanges, and then a sense of _looking_ pervades the Force, filing the very air with an electric tingle, as though the world holds its breath in unison with him.

A pair of slender legs, clad in cream trousers and high brown boots, stops immediately in front of him. He shrinks deeper into Light, urging the newcomer to _move along…. This is not the table you are looking for…_

But to no avail. The seeker hesitates, then crouches, shoulders and then lovely face appearing beneath the tabletop's plane. It is a golden-skinned human girl with deep glittering dark eyes and a small jewel affixed to the very center of her forehead. Her dark tresses are bound back, only the tell-tale padawan braid swinging over one shoulder. Her shapely mouth curves in a small, comforting smile, and she invites herself in to share his refuge.

He scoots back a short distance, wary.

"Hello there, " the padawan says, voice soft and reassuring. "What are you doing hiding under here?" Her thin brows contract, making a soft furrow in her forehead where the ornament twinkles. "And where are the rest of your clothes?"

He shrugs. Some things are lost in translation.

The girl holds out a hand, warm and encouraging. "My name is Depa. Who are you?"

Ha. He and Garen are men of the _world, _ at least so far as extensive reading can make one so – and he knows that a prisoner of war should _never_ offer information to his captor. He tucks his chin down and fixes her with a stern but apologetic regard. She _is_ kind, and means well – he can feel it. But rules are rules. He is _not _ going to cooperate in his own capture.

"You must be Obi-Wan. Isn't that right?" she cajoles. "Come on out. Here. Take my hand."

No. Not happening.

Depa scoots just a _tad_ further beneath their now shared place of concealment, and extends her hand just enough to touch his bent knee. The contact sparks a flush of vibrancy, warmth and reassurance flooding in the Force. Depa is essentially trustworthy and compassionate. For a moment he almost feels sorry that she has found him, because he does not want to hurt her feelings by escaping again – but before he can work out the murky confusion of his thoughts on the matter, he is distracted by the chiming of her commlink.

"I found the missing youngling, Master," she says, in a hushed tone. "We're in the south wing lower refectory. Under a table."

Depa's master has a deep, sonorous voice. His reply is enigmatic, at least to the refugee's inexperienced ears. There might even be a trenchancy to it, a kind of grim humor. "Very good…. If he tries to elude your grasp, proceed with extreme prejudice."

The padawan smiles at this, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. "I'll maintain diplomatic equilibrium until you arrive." She is still smiling when she pockets the' link again.

"What's extreme predujice?" he inquires, somewhat uneasily. Some kind of medical jargon, he suspects. His enemies, it would appear, are legion.

But Depa only slides another few centimeters toward him, conspiratorially. "I'll just wait here with you until my Master comes," she decides. "It will be all right. Don't worry."

_Worrying_ is for babies, like Bant. He is not worried. He is… thinking about his situation. Hard. Because there is no way he can overpower Depa and her master and all the other Jedi in this room, who probably know he is here, too, but are simply pretending not to notice, as a ruse to keep him calm. He is not going to be able to sneak or fight his way out this time.

He is going to have to negotiate for all he's worth.

* * *

He drags himself forward down the tunnel – because it would be surpassingly _inconvenient_ to be caught within a hundred meters of the blast radius when the generator finally blows. He can feel the hunt for him spreading through the compound like a fever – the Force, so faint and distant, still conveys to him an echo of shouting, tramping feet, frustration and barked orders. They have no idea where he is. Though Pugill seemed obscenely confident in the powers of his ominous _drivok,_ whatever that is.

He lays on more speed.

Which is to say, he crawls until his injuries dictate that he can crawl no further. He collapses on his back and grits his teeth. This stretch of ventilation shaft is going to have to serve as cover and concealment for at least five standard minutes. He is dizzy, and cold, and _cut off_ from the Force. Mortal peril he can accommodate into his daily routine with relative equanimity – it is the lattermost affliction that truly _vexes_ him. Blast Dooku for being so obsessively _thorough_ in his protocols.

Eventually, his senses reorient themselves, and he can hear sounds besides those of his own pulse and ragged breathing. Puggil's voice is echoing over the public address system again, purportedly addressing him directly. He lifts his head a fraction, attending to the message.

"General Kenobi," the Separatist officer 's amplified voice booms. "A specialized agent is on the premises as we speak. It informs me that your presence is _easy_ to discern, in some psychic manner I will not pretend to comprehend, and that your precise location will be simple to pinpoint. I suggest you end this futile gesture now, before we devolve into an ugly confrontation."

A confrontation would certainly be distasteful – but when the power station overloads, things are going to be far more than merely _ugly._ Sometimes personal preferences must be sacrificed to accommodate the common good ; this day has been marked by a singular incivility, and shows no signs of improving, but such are the tides of war. He sighs and lets his head drop back, racking his memory for any scrap of information concerning a thing called "drivok." He still comes up blank.

And then he _feels_ it – a disturbance in the Force that would surely strike him like a punch in the gut were he not drugged to the gills with occult toxins. An oily, creeping _presence_ slides over him, invisibly, impalpably, a searchlight penetrating into the most obscure crevices of being.

So the hired help is a _Sensitive,_ in some measure. Remarkable. And unfortunate – he is fairly certain that his hiding place no longer qualifies as such. He rolls over, heaves himself onto hands and knees, and waits. Better to conserve energy than to waste his resources on useless flight. He is not going to be able to sneak or fight his way out this time.

He is going to have to negotiate for all he's worth.

* * *

After a while, most the other diners clear out; their boots pad away in pairs and groups of four and six, footfalls fading into concourses and halls beyond. Depa has kindly loaned him her own cloak, which is both voluminous and warm, and he gratefully huddles beneath its soft folds, observing that his new companion – although a traitor, ipso facto – is both empathetic and intuitively good company. She has not interrogated him, nor bored him to tears with a moral lecture. She is merely sitting beside him, respectful of his space while maintaining a precautionary vigil.

If she were not his _foe_ at the moment, she might make a good friend. But such are the tides of war.

And then another, truly enormous pair of boots appears beneath the table's inverted horizon. They are topped by crisp white trousers, and they are framed by the drape of a vast, dark cloak, a veritable waterfall of brown cloth silently skimming the inlaid floor.

"Master," Depa whispers. "Here we are." She seizes her prisoner's hand in her own, and drags him forward, out from beneath their shelter, into the presence of this giant apparition.

It is necessary to look up and up and _up_ into the tall Jedi's face. He is a _tower_ of furled potential , a massed thunderhead on some wild exotic horizon, a thing of splendor and majesty. The Force roils about him – slow, rumbling, contained but _intense, so intense –_

He blinks, and then Depa's master chuckles a little, abruptly shielding. He collapses back to his own flesh-and-blood self, which is still imposing enough in sheer physical scale. He crouches down, to bring them more to eye level. The whites of his eyes glint faintly against the rich dark hue of his skin. His smile is slightly alarming. "So," he says, the word a baritone gong note, "On the lam from the healers, are we?"

By _we_, of course, he means _you._ There is no answer to be made to this question but a squaring of the shoulders. It is wrong to lie, and it is stupid to implicate oneself by confession. Silence is the only feasible option.

"He's a little sick," Depa pipes up. "I think his arm is hurt and he's definitely confused."

Confused? Who asked for her opinion, anyway?!

The broad shouldered Knight – who has no hair, it is to be noted with curiosity – swoops the captive up off his feet and high into the air, tucking him neatly against his own chest with one powerful arm. "We'll take this little one back where he belongs," he decides.

"To Master Ali?" the escapee hopes, aloud. That is, after all, where he belongs.

"He wants to go back to the crèche, Master. I think that's where he was headed, when he ran away," Depa interprets. She is very perspicacious.

"Hm," her intimidating mentor rumbles. He eyes his helpless captive critically. "Let's hear what you have to say about that, shall we?"

* * *

After a while, the tunnel wall a few meters away is perforated by a high-power fusion cutter. A moment later, three globular probe droids slip through the carved opening and thrum toward him, hovering a menacing arm's reach away, built-in stun blasters trained on their target. At such close quarters, he really has nowhere to go, and no weapon with which to deflect their fire – he freezes in place, hoping to avoid a paralyzing jolt to his central nervous system. He has filled his quota for the day and has no intention of tallying up more aches and pains on the scoreboard.

"General," Puggil's voice calls out, from just below. "Your choice: come quietly, or be dragged out of there insensate."

He makes a face, since nobody can see him but the moronic droids. _Blast it._ "I'll be there shortly," he informs his …host, and drops through the gap in the tunnel floor with as much grace and dignity as he can muster. The corridor below is occupied by a predictably ostentatious number of battle droids, Puggil - and a third, utterly bizarre creature.

Bones jutting beneath tight-drawn mauve skin, the …_drivok, _ for this must be the same, stares at him with an expressionless intensity equal to his own curiosity regarding it. The thing is small in frame, angular, almost cadaverous – and yet the stringy muscle beneath its hide does not bespeak weakness, per se. It has no apparent gender, no hair, no clothing but a sort of loincloth obviously donned for the sake of its employer's sensibilities – and above all, an eerie resonance in the Force. What would it feel like were he able to truly touch the universal energy, were he not half-blind?

He might never know.

The thing points at him with one gaunt hand. "Him," it rasps. "Taste him before. Jeeedai."

"Yes, thank you," Puggil cuts his 'specialist' off, lip curling in revulsion. "We have already discussed appropriate compensation for your services.. that will be all."

The drivok, thus dismissed, slinks away with its drawn face turned over one shoulder, leaving its quarry feeling unaccountably… violated. The droids close in around him, threatening.

"So," Puggil resumes, in his nasal, wheedling tone, "I trust our petty indulgence in theatrics is at an end?"

By _our,_ of course, he means _your. _ There is no answer to be made to this question but a squaring of the shoulders. Neither a display of defiance nor of submission will further his aims. Silence is the only feasible option.

The med droid is lurking among the massed ranks of robotic soldiery. "Subject's biosigns indicate substandard functioning and possible re-opening of internal injuries. I recommend a reassessment and stabilization."

Substandard? Who asked its opinion, anyway?

Puggil nods to the foremost squadron of droids. "Let us escort the General back to his cell – and from there we can make sure he's sent where he belongs."

Well, if the gesture is to be mutual, he has a fair notion of where he'd like to send Puggil… but such derogatory thoughts are better left unvoiced.

The Separatist officer nods, once. "Don't think it escaped my notice that you did not head for the hangar bay or one of the exterior outlets." He is very perspicacious.

"In fact," he adds, as the prisoner is hustled down the hall in the none-too-gentle grip of two super-model battle droids, "Let's hear what you have to say about that, shall we?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Missing in Action**

* * *

**VII.**

Depa walks to her master's left, and one pace behind, her hands tucked demurely into opposite sleeves. From his vantage point, looking backward over the tall Jedi's shoulder, it appears that the padawan has no hands at all, but is a pillar of serenity floating gravely over the marble floor. Her eyes meet his and smile when she notices his curious gaze.

They have a long way to go, and at the moment – being carried so comfortably in the crook of a strong arm, swaying gently to the rhythm of a long stride, it is severely tempting to close his eyes…. Just to _rest_ for a moment, because the last hours have been sorely taxing and because his mind is so very very tired…

… and he still has to formulate his arguments, his irrefutable appeal to reason, to justice, to decency…

…so _tired…_

He closes his eyes and rests his ridiculously heavy head against the tall Jedi's collarbone, and exhales. Just one moment of rest….

Dimly, his senses register that he is still deep, deep in trouble, but for the moment he is wrapped in a blanket of content, of relief, of –

"Here we are," a deep, rolling voice announces, mere centimeters from his ear.

He jolts awake again, and cries aloud in distress.

The traitors have brought him straight back into the nexu's den; a very peeved healer and the coddling DD-2 med-droid are waiting in the antechamber, looking positively _hungry_ for their work.

* * *

The battle droids march in a tight formation, legs perfectly synchronized with one another so that they tramp mechanically down the hall to a manic collective beat. From his vantage point, pinned securely in the midst of the moving wall, their rising and falling limbs resemble nothing so much as a threshing machine, one of the massive agriculture combines he has seen on agrarian worlds… symbolic of the CIS' scythe-like progress across the field of the Republic.

They have a long way to go, apparently – it feels close to seven or eight klicks, though his abstract reason informs him it must be no more than a few hundred meters – and at some point his strength simply _departs_ without saying goodbye, leaving him to be carried like a sack of tubers by the relentless droids. They neither slow not falter their pace when he sags in their grip, and he is tempted, Force forgive him, to simply close his eyes – to _rest_ for just a moment because the last hours have been severely taxing and his mind is utterly exhausted, not to mention _poisoned…_

… he muddles over his intended rhetorical strategy, the best tactic to employ, but he is _dreadfully, horribly_ tired….

..empty, and he cannot access the Light to fill up what nature has spilled out… tired beyond reckoning…

He closes his eyes, for the barest of moments, the monotonous beat of droid feet marking their endless, ceaseless progress down an infinite tunnel leading into darkness, into relief….

Dimly, his senses register that he is still in deep, deep trouble, but here on the brink of unconsciousness it is as though he can almost touch the Force, as though he is a youngling splashing at the shore of an infinite sea, one that pounds louder and deeper than the droid's tramping, one that pulses in and around and throughout all things…. A sea of _serenity, _of rest….

"Here," the robotic commandante drones, just behind him.

He is thrown face-first upon the hard floor, and grunts in acute distress when his ribs make a _sound_ again.

The Seps have dragged him straight back into the nexu's den; a very peeved Puggil and the spherical, bristling interrogation droid are waiting in the corner, looking positively _hungry_ for their work.

* * *

"Explain yourself!" the blue-complected Twi"lek demands, arms akimbo and lekku undulating in vexation.

He clutches at the tall Jedi's tunics, bunching cloth in both fists. When the chips are down, he would prefer to submit himself to _this_ man's authority. Depa's master exudes a sense of power, and his wrath will surely be swift and terrible – and over in a flash. Far better to be blasted into oblivion or cut down with a 'saber, clean and irrevocable means of demise, than to be subjected to the Healing Arts for some indefinite, prolonged period of torment and humiliation.

"He's afraid," Depa quietly observes. "Please, Master healer –"

The Twi"Lek deflates, closing her eyes and taking a pace backward. The young culprit maintains a precautionary grip on the tall man's tunic hem.

"Forgive me," the healer murmurs, after a moment, making a small half-bow to her colleagues. "I am in your debt. Thank you for bringing him safely back to us."

Safely? Her idea of "safe" and his are _very_ different.

An effort is made to set him on his own feet, but he clings stubbornly to the dark, tall Jedi's neck. Sadly, his hands are parted and pinned at his sides, and he is turned over to DD-2's smothering ministrations without a word of apology or regret.

A hot emotion bubbles up from within. He had been _so close!_ He stamps his foot upon the floor, protesting the tragic turn of his destiny.

The healer kneels before him, fixing him with a very stern and sober look indeed. "Running away was very _naughty," _ she says, lips forming a thin line of disapproval. "What were you thinking, Obi-Wan?"

He cranes his head over one shoulder, seeking support, but his erstwhile captor appears only vaguely amused by the proceedings. In Depa's eyes he finds softer sentiment, but she remains silent and attentive, standing behind her master. He is alone, and has only his wits for ally.

He gnaws at his inside cheek and takes a deep breath. "I was doing what I was 'sposed to do," he insists.

"By _running away?"_ the Twi"lek casts an exasperated glance over his shoulder. "How is that what you are supposed to do, hm?" Her tone is _rife _ with dubiety.

He frowns. But tender though he is in years, he knows _exactly_ how this game works. The person asking the questions has the upper hand. "Because… why do I have to be _here?"_ he inquires, petulantly.

His interlocutor takes the bait. "Because," she patiently explains, "You need to get better, so that you can return to your teachers and friends in the crèche."

He nods, slowly. "So you don't want me to stay here forever?"

The Twi'Lek blinks and then smiles, indulgently. "Of course not, little one. Is that what you thought? No, no – we want you to get back to your friends, as quickly as possible."

Victory. His chest swells. "So I was doing what you want me to do!" he triumphantly concludes.

The healer is momentarily taken aback by the sophistical reversal; behind him, a deep laugh like thunder and rain echoes off the high ceiling. "The mind of a child is a wonderful thing," Depa's master remarks. "May the Force be with you." he summons his apprentice with a wave of the hand and retreats out the doors in a swirl of dark cloak.

His captor closes one blue hand about his wrist. "Come along. DD2 will give you a check-over, and then we will see about the bacta. And _no nonsense_ this time." She pulls him along the corridor, into the small room in which he was incarcerated previously.

"I want Master Ali," he laments, standing despondently inside the threshold.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," the healer clucks, shunting him toward the medical cot in the room's center. "Please tell me you did not frolic about the Temple in your undershorts," she adds, as an appalled afterthought.

He glances down, then up again. What difference does –

His heart gives a wild leap of exultation, for suddenly, without herald or fanfare, Ali Alaan appears framed in the doorway. "Thank the Force," the crechemaster sighs. "You've found him."

And in that moment, he knows that the tables have been turned, and the perfidious healers utterly vanquished.

* * *

"I deeply regret that it has come to this," Puggil sniffs, as the interrogation droid hovers closer, two spindly appendages tipped in _electropulsors_ extended just far enough to hint at threat. The battle droids – besides the two holding the prisoner suspended by his wrists,feet dangling off the deck - remain in the cell, lined up along two of the walls. They spill over into the corridor, too. "I assure you, I much prefer a cultured exchange between colleagues and equals to this… barbarism. But I shall not be squeamish, in the line of duty, even if it entails sucha dreadful breach of good manners. I do hope you understand."

"Oh yes.. let us not elevate etiquette above patriotism."

"Something is not _right_ with this scenario," the Separatist commander continues, pacing back and forth. "Your profile does not give the impression of a reckless man, nor of a fool. What possessed you to make such a doomed escape attempt, hm? Unless it _wasn't _ one." He leans down, peering at his captive intently.

A bland look. "Perhaps I simply didn't want to outstay my welcome."

Puggil scowls. "What have I overlooked?" he muses, academically. The droid creeps closer, cruel instruments sizzling.

"Nothing, I assure you. Everything has gone splendidly – just according to plan." Improvisation is an essential skill, more useful in diplomatic bargaining than anyone would like to think. And he has plenty of incentive to be creative, here.

"Would you care to elaborate on this _plan_?"

"Ah…. I'm afraid not. So sorry."

He flinches away from the first touch of the droid's claw-like extremities, tongues of blue energy snapping and arcing in mid-air.

Puggil's eyes narrow. "I do believe you're bluffing, General." He snaps his fingers.

The droid probably enjoys its work, in some perverse cybernetic way. Certainly it is not enjoyable from the victim's point of view, especially as he is far too enervated to maintain a stoic façade. After one full agonizing minute, Puggil calls the wicked interrogation unit off.

"I would prefer your _honesty, _ General," he growls, jowls wobbling. "I have a great deal at stake in this operation, you see – and I assure, you I take no pleasure in this aspect of the business."

"You don't say," he pants, still twitching and spasming. Hopefully the dark spots swimming in his field of vision are temporary.

"I'll ask you one more time, "Puggil says, folding his hands behind his back. "Is this some kind of elaborate espionage operation? …That's more in your style," he adds, as an afterthought. "Tell me what your mission mandate was, and I'll guarantee your safe conduct to High Command."

Safe? Puggil's idea of "safe" and his are very different.

He manages another impertinent half-smile, through chattering teeth. "Oh, nothing much… just the wholesale destruction of this outpost."

Puggil has the audacity to laugh in his face. "Now I _know_ you are bluffing," he chuckles, humorlessly. "This habit of _falsehood_ is not one that benefits you, General. Not even the Jedi Order would expect one operative – unarmed, injured, and neutralized – to pull off such a miraculous feat. You overestimate your own talent, I'm afraid."

"Your vote of confidence is cheering," he quips deadpan.

Puggil casts a significant glance at the droid, hovering at the ready an arm's length away. "If you think this is, ah…. distasteful,"" he murmurs, "I can only imagine by what means Dooku plans to wrest information out of you."

A fair point. Sadly, also an irrelevant one. He does not deign to make reply.

Puggil leans in closer. "Time is running out, my friend."

His heart gives a wild leap of exultation – even with the Force dampened to the point of nullity, he can sense the impending event like a tsunami wave poised on the horizon. He grins, saucily. "Yes, I'm afraid it is."

At which point, without herald or fanfare beyond an earth-shattering sonic boom and a violent shuddering that rocks the whole compound to its foundations, the power generator explodes, taking most likely half the building with it. Klaxons blare, the lights fail, alarms wail and scream, Puggil's comm-feed bursts into a cascade of garbled and frantic chatter.

The Separatist turns astonished eyes upon his captive. "You - !" he chokes out, in a strangled growl.

And at that moment, he knows the tables have been turned, and the perfidious CIS operation here utterly thwarted.


	8. Chapter 8

**Missing In Action**

* * *

**VIII.**

Of course, victory sometimes takes unlikely forms.

"Master!" he exclaims, darting across the small chamber and into Ali Alaan's willing embrace.

The tall crèche-master's black hair is tied back in a long silver-flecked plait behind his head. He holds the prodigal at arm's length, making a sober assessment of his own. "What's this about you leaving the ward without permission?" he asks. "You had the entire Temple concerned on your behalf. That is _not_ courteous behavior."

Dangling with his feet in mid-air, the miscreant squirms in mortification. He does not want Master Ali to think ill of him, nor does he wish to be _discourteous._ That is Bruck Chun's stock in trade, not _his._ "I'm sorry," he mumbles, looking down, away, anywhere but the crèche master's face.

Ali Alaan relents, a little, and holds him closer, against his own chest. His presence is soothing, solid and reliable, an island amid the turmoil of this long afternoon. "We will discuss this later. In the meanwhile, you need to cooperate with the healers."

What? He bolts upright from his relaxed posture, eyes wide with betrayal. "I want to go home!" he protests, shaking his head in denial. Master Ali _must_understand. His plea tumbles out, a distraught river flooding its youthful banks, without regard for logic or the listening healer, or the need to take a breath. "I don't want to be here! There are machines and droids and they stick funny _things _on your skin and they put my arm in an itchy cast and they have medicine and they make you lie still in bed and it smells awful and there aren't any toys and they watch you all the time and Master! They're going to put me in _batca!"_

The last bit comes out in a horrified squeak, utterly bereft of Jedi dignity.

Ali Alaan chuckles a bit, and strokes his back. The healer releases a very long and quiet sigh, as though she is seeking serenity from the Living Force. Her job must be very stressful. He buries his face in the crèche-master's tunics and waits for vindication.

What he gets instead is… a shock.

"I really do think," Ali Alaan says to the healer, "That it is in everyone's best interests to have him back in the crèche as expeditiously as possible." A pause, in which the Twi"Lek grudgingly acquiesces to this sensible suggestion. And then – like a vibroshiv in the back – "Perhaps you could release him to my care directly after bacta immersion? Which would best be done now, while I'm here."

Mouth agape, heart pounding, he wriggles in the crèche-master's firm grip. This betrayal is _unthinkable, preposterous, abominable!_ "But but!" he protests, doubling the magnitude of his transgression by doubling the forbidden word.

"Peace, little one," Master Ali insists. "This is for your own good." He tightens his hold, his voice and hands calm, soothing, inviting trust while his words and actions scream treason. It is confusing and horrifying and it is, maybe, just a bit too much at the end of a very long day.

His tears are a delicately calibrated solution of anger, fear, and hurt feelings. It is not supposed to end this way. He hides his face in shame and defeat.

Oddly enough, now that they have emerged as conquerors – by the dirtiest, most underhanded trick in the book – the conspirators turn kindly. Another assistant shows up, along with a proper humanoid med-droid; the whole lot of them bustle into the reeking-of-yeast bacta room, with its macabre tanks and ominous, bleeping machines and glaring light.

In a state of stunned and exhausted misery, he finds himself settled upon Ali Alaan's lap, then scanned and prodded and petted and stroked and coddled and soothed and talked about as though he is not present as a participant, and fitted with a respiration mask which he is too despondent to rip off, and then pricked by a hypo, which sends a hot chill racing through his veins.. and then…

And then…

He is falling, through billowing shadow and light, into an oblivion circumscribed by strong arms and a familiar voice.

* * *

Of course, victory sometimes takes unlikely forms.

In this case, it takes the form of being summarily abandoned inside the cell, while Puggil and company rush to salvage their collective careers from the disaster which has quite literally crashed down on their heads. They don't even stay long enough to let him _gloat_ over his triumph.

Ah, well. A Jedi craves not such things. On the other hand, especially after an hour's ennui, he does crave the ability to _open_ the star-forsaken door, which ordinarily he could rip off its hydraulic pistons with a flick of his fingers, were he not so –

The door crumples into a mangled ball and collapses, as though in response to his _thought._

He blinks, momentarily astonished, and then sees the true cause of the portal's precipitous demise.

"Anakin!" he gasps, unable to hide his spreading smile. The young Jedi is shin-deep in scrapped droid parts, boasts a scorch mark or two on his synth-leather tabards, and looks as jaunty as ever as he assesses his friend's condition in one sweeping head-to-toe look.

"You're alive," the hero of the moment concludes.

"Very astute," he snaps. The room appears to be spinning on its axis, which is peculiar. "The defensive shield collapsed?"

Anakin steps over the threshold and grabs him by the shoulders, brows coming together in a frown. "Yup. I assume that was you? Good work. And the 501st boys are busy shredding up the rest of this place. Gotta leave them some juicy bits or they get kinda pissy, you know? So I thought I'd hunt you down."

He nods, weaving on his feet. "What about Puggil?"

"The Seppie commander? Coward got away… but we'll catch up to him later." Anakin's promise is a threat, and an oath. He flashes a lopsided grin. "Guess what I found in his private office, or what's left of it?"

"Ah…?"

His cocky young friend produces a burnished lightsaber hilt and flourishes it before his eyes. "This weapon is your _life_, Master. Try not to lose it."

He snatches the weapon from his friend's grasp. "Well, I'll _try…_ but it's infernally difficult with you _sabotaging_ my fighter, Anakin!"

The culprit has the good grace to blush, just a little. "It was just an upgrade, and uh – whoa, easy, Obi-Wan! Easy!"

"I'm fine," he grunts, sagging in the younger man's grip. His recent activities might, theoretically qualify as 'overdoing it," he supposes. From a certain point of view. It all seems to be catching up with him in the present moment, at any rate.

Abruptly tender, Anakin tightens his grasp. "I'm glad I found you when I did," he says. "Just tell me I'm not gonna have to carry you outta here."

Poppycock. "This does _not count_ as a rescue," he declares.

"What?!"

"I only crashed because….. your tinkering, Anakin! Doesn't…. should think you owe me one."

"Huh, okay, whatever you say," his young counterpart agrees, with complete insincerity. "Stay with me, Master, you don't look so good – "

What in stars' name does his _appearance _ have to do with anything? The CIS uniform is gauche and ill-tailored, but that is _not his fault. _And it is uncharacteristic for Anakin to take notice of such trifles, anyway. "Not a rescue," he insists, woozily.

"Sure," his companion replies, in a soothing voice generally reserved for toddlers and the mentally incapacitated. "It was all part of your big plan."

"It was," he snarls.

"Funny - I don't remember that briefing," Anakin smirks.

"Because you never listen," he smiles, blandly. The world tilts on its axis, and he staggers against the younger Jedi again. "Now do your job and get me out of here."

Anakin rolls his eyes. "Yes, Master," he intones, in his best martyred saint voice.

He snorts, because if he chuckles aloud he might retch, or collapse, or faint or do something else completely undignified, and at the moment all he can focus on is getting out of here. They take one wobbling step together, then another, and then…

And then…

And then he is falling through billowing shadow and light, into an oblivion circumscribed by strong arms and a familiar voice.

* * *

When he wakes, it is into blessed warmth and comfort. And to the sight of Garen Muln's face, peering intently into his at nose-to-nose distance.

"Garen!" he hiccups, trying to blink away the lassitude laying claim to his limbs and thoughts alike. It does not shake off easily, so he succumbs to momentary languor.

The other boy grins widely. "You're awake!" He leans in. "I'm 'sposed to be taking a nap. Tell me all about it!"

About….?

"How you got away and hid and everything. How you got capturized, and did you _fight?"_

He pushes up on his elbows, squinting in the dim light. He is tucked into a pile of thermal blankets, safe in his own cot in the crèche dormitory. There are no nasty, itching _things_ stuck on his skin, and there is no machine bleeping at him. Though, he notes with a fastidious wrinkle of his nose, the place bears a certain lingering odor of batca. And there is an artificially hushed quality to the environment. Still, he will take what he can get.

This kind of coddling is far preferable to interment in the Halls of Healing.

"Master Ali said it was for my own good," he pouts. Forgiveness is the Jedi way, but he is still lying stunned by the side of the road.

"What's batca like?" Garen urges him. "Is it disgusting? Reeft wants to know what it tastes like!"

He muses upon this. "I don't remember." Odd, that.

This does not satisfy his friend. "If you can't remember maybe it's not bad," he theorizes.

What utter stuff and nonsense. "It's _disgusting_ , Garen."

"But how do you _know?"_

He crosses his arms. "I know." An ear-splitting yawn interrupts their discussion. He is still _tired, _ and the overtones of pain still resound faintly in the back of his psyche, somewhere deep in his bones.

"So…" Garen changes topics. "Are you not going to the obstacle course anymore? Cause you got hurt?"

What a foolish notion. He scowls. "No," he scoffs.. "I'm not going to _fall_ anymore."

This is the right answer, and assuages any incipient anxiety. "Okay, good."

Garen lays down beside him and curls on his side. Within moments he is fast asleep, small chest rising and falling steadily, one hand curled about the blanket's edge.

He might or might not fall asleep beside his friend; certainly when he opens his eyes again, the light has changed, and Ali Alaan is crouched beside him.

"How do you feel now?" the gentle crèche master inquires.

He shrugs. "I'm fine."

"You'll be fine, in time," he is mildly corrected. "For now, you need rest. Look at Garen's fine example – you follow his lead and we'll have you fit for the next spot of trouble in no time."

This sounds like a fine plan, one he can wait to implement until he isn't so… sleepy. Another yawn renders him speechless for long seconds.

Ali Alaan strokes his forehead. "We are glad to have you back in one piece," he smiles, before departing. "It's not often that one of mine goes missing in action. It led me to reflect that each of us is a unique… vergence… in the Force." He raises a brow. "However, that does not mean there is no lesson in this for _you."_

This promises a future reckoning – a lesson that will doubtless taste bitter going down, even if it is "for his own good." He shrinks down into the covers, biting his lip.

"For now, rest. And welcome home." The crèche-master's footfalls are soundless as he glides between the softly shafting beams of light.

It is good to be back.

* * *

When he wakes it is into blessed warmth and comfort. And Anakin's face, peering critically into his own at nearly nose to nose distance.

"Anakin," he rasps, trying to blink away the lassitude laying equal claim to his limbs and thoughts. It does not shake off easily, so he succumbs to momentary languor.

The young Jedi grins widely. "You're awake! They said you might go into a coma – those Sith-damned Force suppressant toxins, and –"

"I'm not that easy to sideline," he grunts, pushing up onto elbows with some effort. Stars, he is a _wreck._ Not that he is going to admit that fact aloud, especially in front of his former protégé.

"Oh that's right," the impertinent whelp retorts. "And you _never_ need to be rescued."

He spares a sardonic moue for this piece of insolence, and squints at his surroundings. Blast. He is incarcerated in a medical unit, probably one of the Republic's major installations near Devaron, judging by the presence of Jedi healers on staff. He can feel the trace of their individual signatures in the Force- which brings him up short. He can _feel_ again. Truly. He _is _ better.

"You still a little doofy from the bacta?" Anakin asks.

Such cheek. "Contrary to rumor, I do not experience an adverse reaction to bacta," he snips.

Anakin shakes his head. "Oh, I would not describe your reaction as 'adverse", Master… but you can't deny you've got a chuba-wonkee allergy to the stuff. I've seen it. I mean, I've seen you."

"Yes, well." Best to change topics. "Perhaps we should decide how _much_ detail to include in the official report," he suggests, slyly.

It takes Anakin a moment to cotton on. "Wha…? Hey! No! Those upgrades to your fighter were experimental – there's no need to –"

"Exactly Anakin. There's no need to. To do them in the first place. To do them at all. If you ever once so much as lay a finger on my – "

But the young Knight raises placating hands, one flesh and one robotic. "Okay okay. I surrender."

"Unlikely."

"I learned from the best, right? Never _really_ surrender and never need to be rescued."

"We'll forget it happened," he grudgingly accedes.

It is a compromise, but they are well accustomed to keeping the peace at all costs.

Anakin leans in, relief shining in bright blue eyes. "I, uh… Obi-Wan. Just promise me not ot go missing in action again. It weirds me out, you know."

"I know."

"I, uh… it just makes me realize how unique every person is, and uh…."

"I understand, Anakin."

He does. But both of them would really prefer not to talk about it now. Or ever.

They share a grin.

"So you're not going to hold a grudge," the young Jedi clarifies. "Especially since I swooped in and saved your sorry arse again."

He snorts. "A Jedi shall know not anger, nor resentment, nor _pride_ in accomplishment," he reminds his companion. "However, that does not mean this escapade contains no _lesson."_

"Spare me!" Anakin moans, in mock horror. "I've overstayed my welcome here… healers tried to kick me out a couple times already, so…."He stands, fingers of one hand brushing his friend's shoulder in mute greeting, or benediction. "I'll check in later, make sure you're not AWOL."

"You do that."

"I will."

"Of course you will – I told you to."

"Means nothing."

"Fair point. But do it anyway."

"Okay, Master. Get some rest. And welcome home. Such as it is." Anakin's tall sable-clad figure wends soundlessly between the shafting beams of light as he departs.

It is good to be back.


End file.
